


Echoes of a Crash

by InkorStardust



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Blood, Drugs (Or descends into), General Endverse stuff you know, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2012-10-15
Packaged: 2017-12-18 05:41:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/876256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkorStardust/pseuds/InkorStardust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> The world is ending, and everything is going to Hell in a handbasket. A man named Dean Winchester is becoming a leader, an angel named Castiel is falling from grace, and somewhere another man and the devil do the same dance in reverse. </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ARTIST: Quickreaver (and art can be found here http://quickreaver.livejournal.com/49715.html)
> 
> And it's really is good. I'd highly recommend checking the artist out. Uh, this was for a Big Bang last year, but I've only just got around to shifting everything over to this site from my old one.

  


It isn’t supposed to hurt. Life isn’t supposed to be a painful process that makes you want to curl up and quit it altogether.

When it happens to Castiel, he knows suddenly why humans spend every moment after their birth doing things that take away the feeling. Why they aim for death. He becomes aware that a human is screaming, and it has to be human because an angel would scream in their true voice if you found a way to pain them, not in some feeble throat-made yowl.

A few seconds after that, he becomes aware he is the one screaming.

It sounds different though. Not the tone, but the way it’s entering his head and echoing around in there, like a marble in a tin. He manages to open his eyes –and when had everything gotten so dark and foggy anyway – staring up at what he’d shoved Dean out of the way to face. Raphael, of course, because if there was an angel to ‘persuade’ a soul to say yes to a host, it was him, stands with the only brightness in the world on their palm, holding it there in a way that couldn’t be seen through a host body. Castiel stares for a moment, trying to focus on it, before he realises what is happening.

His grace lies in the hand of the archangel for a moment longer before they tighten their fist and snuff it out.

His world turns upside down again and he thinks he can hear shouting and maybe shooting but it doesn’t matter because the ground is rushing up towards him in a way that’s never seemed so solid before. Everything hurts, somehow, and he only wants to leave this vessel and hide somewhere quiet to heal himself, but he’s too leaden and heavy to even move.

To try and calm himself he focuses on one line of thought, the wonder at how had another angel been able to touch his grace at all, because he hadn’t fallen…

Had he?

He didn’t think so.

He’d just shoved Dean out of the way, like he had dozens of times, doing his job and protecting his soul.

Only this was from the angels, who had claim to the soul, and Castiel realises he’d stepped out against them. The thought is painful in a different way, and as he tries to move beyond it, think of something else, the physical pain rushes back through his limbs and his back especially, burning through the veins of the body and tearing at his shoulder-blades.

Panicked, he tries to find his way back to the coolness of his mind because even the knowledge of being a betrayer is better than this. There has to be some way to stop it, and as another sharp ache shoots down his spine he hears what must be his own voice muttering prayers for it to end. Shame as hot as the pain courses through him, both at what he’s done and how he’s acting. A warrior for thousands of years and he’s begging for it to stop, like a human child. It hurts, he tries to justify, more than anything I’ve ever felt.

The shame doesn’t care.

Hands pull at him and he jerks away from them because they’re making it worse, feeding the fire, even without touching his borrowed skin. Something wet runs down his face and he isn’t sure if it’s tears or sweat because he never produces either. Though he can’t see it, his eyes tightly shut, another pair of hands reaches for him and come to rest around the top of his arms, grasping to pull him up.

These ones are like ice against the burning, a sharp relief, and he curls towards them, half reaching for the painkiller. There are voices, and he knows one of them better than anything else, Dean – he must be fine. He forces his eyes open, checking that neither of the people are wounded.

There’s no more than the usual assortment of cuts and bruises across both their faces, as far as he can see through the fuzziness of his vision, and he shuts his eyes again tiredly. The pain, pushed back by the hands holding him up and pulling him along, takes his energy with it, and he stumbles more than walks. He knows the step into the car, but when he’s left unsupported he simply collapses along the back seat, unwilling as much as unable to move. The door slams behind him, sending a wave of air across his legs, and the car shifts as the two other people get into the front, all followed by the familiar growl of the Impala’s engine before it kicks off, pushing back against the earth.

The last thing Castiel is aware of before he descends into the darkness of unconsciousness is a worried pair of voices talking about him. He begins to tell them that he’s right here, but he’s gone before he even opens his mouth.

In the front seat one pair of hands tightens to whiteness on the steering wheel and the other knots together nervously, their owners not daring to look at each other.

“He was screaming, Dean-“

“I know.” The silence is deafening, but he can’t find it in him to lean over and turn the radio on, reluctant to loosen his grip.

“And did you see the blood on his back? He didn’t even get touched-“

“I know, Jo.” Dean stares at the road ahead angrily, like it’s to blame for all his problems. “I saw.”

It’s useless to try and get through to him in this mood, and Jo temporarily abandons it, staring out of the window instead. Neither of them knows what happened exactly, but they’re both painfully aware that it takes a lot to break an angel.

And now that broken angel is in their back seat.

__

It’s uncomfortable, even without taking the pain into consideration. He’s a sandbag with a slit in it, everything slowly pouring out of him, and no matter how much he tries it keeps slipping through his fingers.

A hand runs something cold across his forehead, cold and damp and dead and the speed of the sand increases with his disgust, emptying him. No. He had to keep a grip on it, somehow, a hold on it. He jerks to the side the best he can, knees coming up against a wall, but as long as it’s away from the cold it’s better than nothing.

If he could just… get to another angel. Yes. Even contact with them would stop the bleeding of his power, and he could rebuild what they’d taken, as long as he could salvage a spark. One of the little tendrils left hanging where it had been pulled out could be grown, if he was able to feel his way around more celestial energy.

The cold, damp thing returns to his brow and with a leaden arm Castiel lashes out, making pain scream through his back again. There’s a dulled clunk that echoes in his head as something hits the floor, and a voice – a woman, some woman – curses him.

It doesn’t matter. He needs… he needs to get up. Find an angel. Find a way to fix him. He tries to swing his legs off of whatever he’s lying on, and his bare feet come down in a puddle of liquid. He barely notices; too busy trying to push all the pain into one box and hold in all his power in another.

It’s like trying to write with one hand and paint a copy of The Last Supper with the other, needing perfect balance to even attempt it. As he pushes himself up to stand it becomes clear he has nowhere near balance, lurching to the side as soon as he’s half-way upright. The room spins before his eyes.

A woman catches him as he falls, a hunter he vaguely recognises, short dark curls sparking something in his memory. Laura? It doesn't matter really, but trying to focus on it means he's not focusing on the pain. She pulls him up sharply, trying to force him back down onto the bed, and to his horror he realises she can push him down even as he fights against her.

His strength is lower than it's ever been, and he's weakening as he stands. With a strong shove she gets him back down and he doesn't have the energy to be able to pull himself back up. He closes his eyes to conserve some of it and speaks, voice a croak.

"I need to leave. I need an angel."

She shakes her head, not that he can see it, and lays a hand across his forehead to check his temperature. "No. You can't even make it to the door. You wouldn't be able to get to an angel even if you could find one."

Her wording strikes him for some reason, but he can't lay a finger on why, and his face turns to a frown. He still needs... "Let me go."

"I'm not holding you down. But I can't let you out, even if I want to. Dean'll kick my ass if I do." She bends to pick up the bowl she dropped, sliding the cloth back inside. There’s no point trying to help the guy if he’s just going to flail and knock things over like a child. Straightening up she glances over his face, still racked in pain even though there’s not a scratch on him.

His back had been covered in blood when they’d brought him in but she hadn’t found any wounds for it, and she’d been thorough. Her thoroughness was the only reason they’d dumped him on her at all- a little actual medical training and she’s supposed to get this guy up and walking? Unlikely. Whatever’s wrong with him, he isn’t going to be getting out of bed for another few days at least.

She sighs and knocks on the table by the side of the bed to catch his attention, and while he doesn’t look round she feels like he’s listening. “I’m going to leave these painkillers here. You wake up and there’s nobody here when you call, take a couple and go back to sleep. Time’s the only thing that’ll heal you.”

She deposits the small container there, not really sure if they’ll do anything at all, since his pain has no physical source. But if they knock him out- and Dean had said he wouldn’t have any kind of tolerance to drugs – it’ll at least keep him quiet.

Castiel can’t do anything but lie there, desperately planning an escape because any angel will do right now, even the one who did this to him because their energy will fix his regardless. He manages to get a half formed idea about the window once he gets a glance of the room after the woman leaves, but the trouble is that to get to the window he has to be able to cross the room, and the legs don’t seem to be co-operating with him. These plans become moot anyway when he tries to raise himself up on his arms too fast and black over takes his vision again, leaving him sprawled on his side.

When he wakes up again it’s dark, to his confusion because he’d only blinked hadn’t he, and now not only does his back scream his legs, twisted under him, ache too. Pain of this sort is so unfamiliar that he doesn’t know how to cope with it, and when he tries to curl in on himself his legs send lightning up his muscles.

The advice from earlier flickers through his mind and he attempts to reach for the bottle without rolling over. When he can’t he grits his teeth and forces himself, even as his back protests viciously against it. He’s never needed any kind of helping medication but maybe if he takes it he can get out, heal himself.

Four little white pills fall out into his palm and he swallows them dry.

By the time he decides that he can make it out of the window with the numbness given to him by the drugs his body is giving out on him, and his attempt to sit upright sends him crashing back to unconsciousness.

When Castiel opens his eyes again he is struck by how wrong the world looks. There’s barely any light, just the electric one in the ceiling and the sun through the window, and everything looks rounded and less defined. He amends the judgement when a face comes into view over him, features as strong and defined as always.

“Dean,” he says – or tries to say, because his voice is a crackling whisper, “I need an-“

“Not going to happen Cas.” Dean’s face is fixed in a frown. “We can’t get an angel, no matter what we try. It’s radio silence.” Nothing had worked. Summoning rituals, hunting haunting grounds, even shouting at the sky when all else had failed- there hadn’t been a single feather.

“You aren’t an angel, they can hide from you-“ He lurches upright, the twisted sheet falling away from his unmarked back and he props himself up. If he can just concentrate, call out a little of the power left, enough to find someone…

By the time anyone else in the room realises what his furrowed brows of concentration are for it’s too late, though Dean comes closest to stopping the attempt.

What happens is definitely not what Castiel was expecting. His back screams as something gives way, and suddenly everyone is very, very aware of where all the blood came from.

It was supposed to be a beacon, or just a glow of power, something that would attract other angels. There had to be at least one who would help him if they saw his “I’m hurt” signal, even if it meant coming into contact with one of the Winchesters. It was supposed to be.

What does happen is a blotchy shadow tacks itself onto the back of Castiel’s usual outline cast against the wall, and from somewhere the blood starts running in rivulets down his back, staining the sheet beneath him. Most of the room are at a loss as to what is happening, but the look on Dean’s face makes it evident he knows exactly what’s going on.

He’d seen the shadows stretching out from Cas’s back before, huge feathered wings stretching across a room. The shadows now are the barest remains of the glory, tattered and stumped as if someone had just reached out and pulled. There’s hardly anything left.

Castiel’s eyes meet Dean’s, pained in a way that doesn’t fit the angel’s face at all. He wants to get out that please can someone try, find him an angel, now, because he can’t exist like this. He can’t live as a husk. He needs his wings like human’s need a heart or lungs. “I need-“

“Cas, I told you. There’s not an angel in the sky. They’re gone.”

Castiel stares at him for a moment longer before his eyes close in exhausted concentration. The broken shadows disappear from the wall and the blood stops dripping, leaving only the drying trails behind. Very purposefully this time he reaches out for where he left the painkillers before, and counts out another four- he doesn’t know doses, but that many had sent him to sleep before, and that’s all he wants. His aching throat manages to open up enough to get them down, and he shuts his eyes as he lowers himself back down.

Dean wets his lips, a little nervously. He doesn’t have a frickin’ clue how to deal with this shit-storm. He’s got an angel with no wings, and no other angels to ask what he’s supposed to do. Hell, it had gotten to the point he’d left out offerings for them. Anything that was supposed to attract them- water from Jordan, honey, incense, and nothing. How is he supposed to get Cas back on his feet when he has no instruction manual?

The angel turns on his side baring his bloody back at the room and Dean glances over at the woman he’d semi-assigned as Cas’s caretaker before. She rolls her eyes and mutters out a curse for him, but leaves to fetch some clean water anyway, dislike of him outweighed by her want to help.

He stares at the figure on the bed for a few seconds, hands twitching at his sides. The sheer wrongness of seeing Cas curled up like he’s helpless makes something dark and unpleasant settle in his stomach and he can only follow suit of the other hunter and leave.

When Castiel turns his head back to ask him a desperate, quiet question, he finds he’s alone. For some reason that appears to hurt.

________________________________________

The daylight nearly blinds him when he wakes up.

It’s streaming through the window he realises at some point he must’ve turned to face, stinging his eyes, and he pulls an arm up to protect himself from the glare. While his head throbs, the rest of him seems functional enough, and he doesn’t know if that’s good or bad. Either his trickle of power has managed to stem the flow and heal him in a few hours, finally getting a grasp on things, or he’s been lying here for several days slowly and organically knitting the body back together.

The fact he can stretch at least tells him his back shouldn’t be troubling him anymore. Jerkily he sits up and twists, muscle memory winning out over what to do about this thing called cramp. He’s puzzled by how different the room looks without the pain induced haze.

It’s far lighter than he thought it was, and larger somehow even though it’s the same size as it was the last time he was conscious. The sheet he’s buried under feels heavier as well, like it has some actual mass. He doesn’t like that – so much of his power would have to be gone for him to be noticing the difference in the weight of a sheet.

Castiel forces his body to move so his feet are pressed against the ground, and while the muscles only seem to want to complain the dull ache is nothing really. The rough fabric of the carpet folds underfoot and with more strain than should be necessary he manages to push himself up so he’s standing. The sheet still vines its way around him and he spends a few moments untangling himself.

He’s still in the suit trousers he’s always worn, thankfully, but his shirt is nowhere to be found. It doesn’t really matter, but it puts a small frown on his face regardless. A few shambling steps get him to the door, which he jerks open harder than he means to.

He knows what all this means. So sensitive to light, unable to balance the strength of a body, needing some kind of medication to even be able to concentrate-

His grace is shredded, and still draining.

Even if he hadn’t been able to identify those things, it wouldn’t have taken him long to notice. He can feel the last lights of it pulsing feebly, but there’s a gaping chasm in his chest, an emptiness not content to be just cold but burning with it. Something that shouldn’t be.

He’s so wrapped up in his probing of the hollowness that he doesn’t look where he’s going, eyes fixed on his chest as if the feeling is something he can see, something tangible. The solid thump of another body against his manages to distract him and he looks up sharply.

Jo blinks and her face breaks into a smile. “Hey, you’re up. Good. You’ve been hovering for a couple of days, but we were starting to think you were just going to let go.”

That settles it then. His power is still flowing out. He gives her a nod in agreement before beginning to question her. “Where’s my shirt, and my jacket?”

The young woman gives him a sympathetic look. “I know you lived in them, but we couldn’t get all the blood out. They’re downstairs somewhere if you think you can do an angel-clean on them.”

Castiel’s fingers twitch as he wondering if he has enough power to even do that much. Perhaps, but he needs to talk to Dean first, before anything else. He needs to make sure that there’s not just been a mistake about the angels. “There must be something else I can have for now. Can I have it? I… feel cold.”

He’s loathe to admit it, but there’s no sense in letting this body catch an illness when he can’t deal with one. Jo’s expression is more than slightly surprised, but she buries it, turning away to dart across the hall. She disappears into a darkened room for a few moments and comes back out holding a T-shirt triumphantly crumpled in her fist. “There. I think it’s clean, but it’s hard to tell with Dean’s stuff. It all smells of booze no matter what.”

He takes it from her and gazes at the dark material. They hang in this stasis for nearly a quarter of a minute before she taps him on the shoulder. “You going to put it on?”

He tilts his head to the side, thinking carefully. Unsure of how clear the connection is any more he reaches back in his mind to find the presence of the true owner of this body. It works, surprisingly, and while Jimmy’s voice is groggy it’s clearer than it’s ever been. Castiel takes the information he needs before retreating, unable to send the man entirely back to sleep. That done he pulls the smooth fabric over his head and tugs it down, unconsciously wrinkling his nose at the acrid smell. “Thank you,” he gruffly acknowledges, before pushing past her to reach the stairs.

Maybe his manners are lacking, but this is important. There’s very little time left, the sand timer of his grace creeping closer and closer to empty. Dean is easy enough to find, the sound of his voice creating an arrow pointing straight to him, and Castiel bursts into the room with all the force of a freight train. “Dean,” he starts, striding across the floor. “I need you.”

The look on Dean’s face is mirrored on the two other hunters in the room, though his shock stays as theirs’ dissolves into quiet amusement. It takes him a moment to bounce back, but when he does his voice is heady with confusion. “Dude, are you wearing my clothes?”

Castiel frowns at the blatant disregard of the importance of the situation. “We need to find an angel, and there are things you might not have tried.”

Dean’s expression manages to make it to irritation. “I told you, there aren’t any. They’ve gone, flown the coop, left the nest, pulled a Carmen Sandiego and vanished on us. We’ve tried everything, even telling ‘em I was going to finally say yes to Michael. Nothing.”

A sliver of desperation makes its way onto Castiel’s face. “There must be some trace.”

“There isn’t.” Dean shifts a little awkwardly, trying to ignore the stares of the other people in the room. “Look, I tried. Accept it. They don’t care about you.”

Castiel raises a hand to shove him hard in the chest, and because his aim was to only bruise he does little more than press his palm against the material, confusion making its way into his eyes when nothing happens. He pulls the hand back, stares at it for a moment, and then puts as much force as he can behind a punch to Dean’s face. Pain shoots through his knuckles, but it’s entirely overshadowed by the rush of power that runs up his arm and wraps around the ties in his chest.

It’s celestial, and while it doesn’t heal any of the damage done it knots the frayed ends to stop the last dregs of power draining out of him.

 

The slight happiness that courses through him is quickly displaced when Dean’s hand grips hold of the borrowed t-shirt, and a restrained hiss gets shot at him. “You mind not acting like a kid who didn’t get his way when I’m dealing with important crap? Take pot shots at me later, but get out of here for now.”

Castiel stares him down, but some of the usual force behind the gaze is lacking, and when it has no effect he glances over at the man and the woman who are hovering around the table, their expressions giving away their confusion. He straightens his back, posture defiant. “Fine.”

I can look myself, he thinks as he about turns and storms away, putting as much strength behind the door slam as he can.

Dean rubs the back of his neck as he turns back to the two hunters he’d been planning with, striding back over to the table. Before he can return to his speech he catches the look they’re giving each other and puts his hand down heavily on the table top. “You wanna share with the class?”

The blonde woman shrugs and keeps her gaze fixed on the desk. “Just thinkin’ that we don’t usually see you havin’ domestics with men.” Her fingers toy with the pins holding down the map as she speaks. “Or such violent ones.”

The record needs to be set straight away on that one- especially the latter part. “I don’t. We aren’t, and he’s being stubborn to the point of stupid. Not a domestic.”

She shrugs again and runs a finger down one of the lines drawn on in deep red ink. “I’ll take your word for it. So, you think it’s here?” She stops on a marked building, abruptly changing the subject.

Dean nods, and silently thanks her for it.

__

Castiel is beginning to realise some of the problems with feeling everything the vessel feels. For a start he’d barely managed to take a few steps out of the door before he’d had to submit to the weather and dart back inside. Snow was beautiful, but it didn’t go well with human limbs, apparently. He isn’t going to get beaten by some weather though, and a few false starts reveal a closet filled with outdoor gear.

He needs shoes first, and a sweep of the remains of Jimmy’s mind gives him a size to look for. He pulls out several pairs before he finds a suitable set, light brown, sturdy boots, and not damp like some of the others. He stuffs his feet into them, pulling at the laces to tighten them before knotting them securely. A good start.

He glances at the coats and jackets and wonders where his coat is – or Jimmy’s coat by technical definition. It doesn’t seem to be here, so he picks something of the same colour but thicker, testing it between his fingers until he’s satisfied it will keep out the cold. He slips it on, smile rising unbidden at the warmth it provides, and fastens it. Another step.

Fingering the buttons though makes him think, and another search finds a pair of woollen mittens – not very dexterous, but serviceable. There. He should be fine now. He makes his way back to the front door, not bothering to close the closet behind him, yanking the hood up as he goes. Fur brushes his face and he feels a pang of sadness go through him until he realises it’s merely a good fake. With a gloved hand he opens the door, stepping out into the cold air and not feeling it. It’s different from not feeling it as an angel – then he simply had no real context of temperature. Now he’s warm, keeping the cold away.

Leaving the door open again he begins to trudge through the snow, head held high as he looks around for a nice clean space of ground.

Some of the people he walks past look a little confused to see him, but he shoulders past them impassively, too intent on his self-given mission. Dean just doesn’t understand, there were ways of calling angels that could force them out better than any summoning. It just took the right rituals, the right signs, and the right scale.

The large, flat spot here would be perfect. He stops short of it, unwilling to make footprints over his canvas. A quick search around the edges reveals a branch big enough to be used as a brush, and slowly Castiel begins to drag his shape into the snow. When he’s done he steps back to examine his handiwork.

[](http://deathofpenguins.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/287/533)  
The shape is crisp in the snow, dark road beneath letting it stand out enough to be clear. It isn’t done though, and he pulls off the gloves to free his hands. It’s only then that he realises he has no weapon to cut his skin with, and while slightly irritated at the baseness of his action it’s the best he can achieve. He raises his left hand to his face, setting the thin join between his thumb and his index finger into his mouth, and bites down until the teeth meet.  
  
It stings painfully, and leaves him with a bloody smear across his lower lip, but it does the job and he squeezes his hand into a fist above the end of the cross on the symbol. A few bright splatters land on the white snow and he nods significantly at the result. He begins to mutter under his breath, in a language long dead, but roughly translated would be something along the lines of, “Metatron, Melekh, Beroth, Noth, Vennibeth, Mach, and all of you, I conjure you, by the Living God, that by the virtue of these letters and words, you render Them visible, wherever I may bear you with me. Amen.”  
  
Words said, he stands back and waits.  
  
And waits.  
  
After six minutes a small crowd of children have gathered to wait with him on the principle that anything might turn out to be candy.  
  
After ten their parents have taken most of them away from the strange man with his symbol and his bloodied lip.  
  
After twenty, cold begins to seep into him.  
  
After twenty five, so does doubt.  
  
After a half hour in the snow, he’s startled from his reverie by a hand on his shoulder. He turns his head around stiffly to find the woman who had been looking after him in his delirium. Lauren, he realises belatedly. Not Laura. She squeezes what is mostly jacket in an attempt to be reassuring, following it up with a sympathetic smile. “Dean said you’d be doing something like this.” She licks her cracked lips. “He also said that you have to believe him.”  
  
Castiel, unused to having no barrier between him and the chemicals of emotion, can’t keep the pained look off his face. He can’t understand how every single one of his siblings could have abandoned him. He pulls himself away from the hand and begins to stride away.  
  
Emotions aren’t just chemicals, of course. They’re something less tangible, something tied to the soul. But a human body acts like a concentrator and makes them so much stronger than the wisps of feeling tied to an angel’s grace. For an angel stuck in a vessel with no celestial wall to keep them out, it can be difficult. If they don’t express them properly, it can be suffocating.  
  
He isn’t entirely aware of it, but there’s only so long he can go without letting himself breathe.  
  
__  
  
With not much else he can do, Castiel turns out to be surprisingly good at peeling vegetables. The second he’d come back he’d had the jacket pulled off of him and a mug of hot coffee shoved into his hands to warm him up. There’s a band-aid on the bite, but it’s in such an awkward place there isn’t much else that can be done to help, and he’s been given some menial task to keep him busy that shouldn’t hurt it.  
  
The peeling potatoes does calm him. A simple task gives him focus again, and he works through them, then the carrots, then the turnips quickly with no concern for the knife. This is easy and uncomplicated.  
  
He finishes them more quickly than expected, and still wanting to have a goal to ignore his thoughts for he begins to chop them into the size pointed out to him. People wander in and out of the kitchen, chatting and mixing up more cups of coffee and tea. Castiel is oblivious to it.  
  
He’s completely alone, even surrounded by people, in a way he can’t explain to them.  
  
He was tied to a thousand different voices, every one available to him at a touch, ten hundred stars shining in his mind. He was on fire, and alive, and able to communicate with less than a thought. He was a messenger.  
  
And now he’s nothing. Fire’s out, connection’s snapped, darkness has fallen. Humans were the loneliest creatures in creation and they didn’t even know it. How did they live like this? Unable to see the majesty of another’s soul, or have their hearts set on love from the start.  
  
As he launches into cutting another carrot into thin slices and a broad hand sneaks over his shoulder to take one he realises. This is the price of free-will.  
  
Oh.  
  
Experimentally, Castiel stops cutting and puts down the knife. He looks over his shoulder and sees the person who set him the task talking away to someone else. His gaze turns back down to the knife. Very slowly he turns around and begins to walk away, heading for the door even though he isn’t done. When he reaches it he stops and turns, his bright blue eyes interlocking with the task giver’s dark ones. The second pair turns to the unfinished pile of vegetables before their owner shrugs.  
  
Castiel doesn’t know what to do exactly. He’s disobeyed an order, and no one minds. It’s… strangely wonderful.  
  
It does unfortunately leave him with the problem of what to do next. He really needs to talk to Dean again before he can figure out a plan of action, and considering how frail he feels he’s not completely sure he’ll win in a straight out fight if he storms back into the meeting.  
  
As he turns his head to finally take a good look at the place they’re staying, some big house nestled in the suburbs of a city, he catches the scent of the borrowed shirt he’s wearing and feels an odd closing in the back of his throat. It’s disgusting.  
  
Jo had said his usual attire was in the kitchen somewhere, though he hasn’t seen it. He locks gazes with the man who he’s just disobeyed again, and pulling at the material of the t-shirt with his fingers he tries to get a location. “Is my shirt here? This one is not… pleasant.”  
  
He gets a chuckle in return. “Yeah, it wouldn’t be. There’s a shirt in a bucket under the sink, but I don’t know if you can wear it.”  
  
Castiel nods a thank you anyway and crosses the room, crouching stiffly when he reaches the sink so he can take a better look inside. He pulls it out cautiously, and notes the long brownish stains beside the spine. An attempt to focus some cleansing energy on it does nothing, and he stares at the shirt wistfully. There are plenty of other shirts, but he’s been connected to this one for so long it seems strange that it’s finally useless. It makes another pang in his chest, and he places it back into the bucket gently.  
  
“Dunno why we got told to keep it,” states a voice from above him, looking down at the ruined clothes. “It’s just a shirt.”  
  
Castiel looks up at him and then back down, unable to explain it aptly. His legs complain when he straightens up, and once again he makes for the door. He might find something clean to wear, but only to get rid of the smell.  
  
In fact, he wonders, if he’s practically human, does that mean sweat has been sticking to his skin as well? He does feel uncomfortable – would washing help?  
  
He decides he might as well do it anyway. It’s another task to focus on, another thing to busy himself with.  
  
When he makes it back up to the room he came out of, he realises there’s no shower attached – so much time spent in motels with the Winchesters has affected his view on things, it seems. The next door he tries is a closet full of sheets, and the third is to what he presumes is Dean’s room, from the smell of alcohol and greasy food.  
  
He tries the last door on the landing, finding a much neater room that must be where Jo is sleeping, though there’s more than one bed. There’s another door inside the room, open, and the sheen of tiles catches the light.  
  
The switch for the light inside takes Castiel a moment to find, but it’s necessary. After being able to see everything perfectly clearly at night or day, the human dullness of vision is limiting. The bathroom is a mess as well, but a search of the room reveals a large, clean towel he can use.  
  
Jimmy’s clothes are folded carefully and put on the counter, though Dean’s bitter t-shirt is dropped onto the floor with a distasteful expression that the ex-angel doesn’t know he’s wearing. The controls on the shower are easy enough to understand, though the blast of cold water through the pipes before it begins to heat up shocks him, tightening all the muscles in his body painfully.  
  
Actually feeling the water on his skin is strange. He’s been in the rain plenty of times, and somewhere in the back of his mind remains all of Jimmy’s memories, but actually experiencing it is peculiar. The thought strikes him he’s acting like a new-born, dazzled by everything.  
  
Castiel just stands there for several minutes, basking in the warm water before some flesh memory prompts him to look for something to use to remove the grime properly. There are several containers of varying shapes and sizes, the purpose of most being an absolute mystery, but “shampoo” is recognisable enough, and when he snaps it open a pleasantly familiar smell drifts out.  
  
When Dean finally begins looking for him, he’s been standing aimlessly under the stream of warm water for the best part of an hour, and it’s only the thumping on the door that pulls him out of his thoughts.  
  
“Cas, you in there? Not forgotten to breathe, right?”  
  
His attention turns to the door, and he reaches out to stop the shower, marvelling slightly at the state of his hands. Wrinkled and pink. Another few heavy thumps against the wood get him out and it’s the voice in the back of his head that makes him wrap the towel around himself before he opens the door.  
  
Dean folds his arms at the sight of him, an unconscious barrier. “I hate doing this stuff, but we need to talk.”  
  
Castiel stares back at him and nods slowly. He has questions, and expects answers, but he might as well get whatever his friend has to say out of the way first. The fact that he remains mute is all that makes the other man speak, just as they balance on the precipice of an awkward silence.  
  
“What’s happening, man? You aren’t supposed to need to sleep, let alone shut down for a week. What’s wrong with you?” As irritated as the tone is there is a hint of concern around the edges of Dean’s eyes, too small and subtle a gesture for the angel to read.  
  
“The blow I took for you wasn’t a physical one. My grace was… torn. Usually I’d be able to fix it, either by going to heaven or even using another angel, but if you’re right…” Castiel trails off, eyes fixing on Dean’s intently. “It looks like you are. Without either of them, my power would keep leaking out. Even from when I was injured it has dropped drastically.”  
  
An expression of realisation crosses Dean’s face. “So what’ve you got left? Like, enough mojo to kill a demon? Or to zap in and out of places? You don’t have your super-strength anyway – that punch was like a kiss compared to your usual crap.”  
  
Castiel doesn’t answer at first, gaze having shifted to the other man’s shoulder thoughtfully. “There was enough to sustain me, but I doubt there is now.” Without expanding any further he reaches out with his free hand and tightly grips the top of Dean’s arm, smiling slightly when he makes contact.  
  
As he thought- the traces of grace left hanging on the soul from when he carried it are still there, asking to be taken back. Tempting as it is, it would be catastrophic for his friend. It would tear him apart.  
  
He settles for just feeling it for a moment before he drops the hand, again without expanding any further.  
  
Confused as hell, Dean swallows and tries to regroup. “So, what’re you saying? That you’re pretty much human now?”  
  
With a sorrowful look that showed the millennia on his back, Castiel nods. “Yes.”  
  
Dean doesn’t seem to have any words for that.  
  
________________________________________  
  
Night is not as beautiful as Castiel remembers it to be.  
  
It’s supposed to be the heavens; billions of exploding balls of fire which, when looked at just right, could almost be mistaken for an angel’s grace.  
  
What he sees is tiny specks flickering against black, not even sequins on cloth. That and the increasingly large and long lasting glow of Venus in orbit, the morning star glowing coldly bright as if it’s perfectly aware it isn’t supposed to appear for hours.  
  
His body- and he really means that now, because his real form is compressed down and unable to be reached- is telling him he should go to sleep, but he can’t. He rubs the borrowed, and thankfully clean this time, t-shirt between his fingers for something to do, eyes fixed on the slice of sky he can see out of the window.  
  
If he could take back the thought from earlier, calling humans alone, he would. As long as there was another human presence, it settled them, and it was remarkable. They didn’t need to hear all the voices to comfort them.  
  
Lying in the dark, alone, he realises that now he feels truly empty. No other beings around to give him liberation from the inside of his head, and definitely no voices in his mind to combat the darkness that seems to come so instinctively to humanity.  
  
He doesn’t want to know what will happen if he stops focusing on something else, the stars or the feeling of cloth between his fingers. If he just accepts the blackness and lets it wash over him.  
  
Try as he might, he can’t manage to avoid the way his head keeps dipping for longer each time, and his eyelids feel like they have weights attached. Blinking is nice, really, maybe he should just do that for a little longer…  
  
He jerks himself up, eyes bright with worry. He can’t keep this up- it would be stupid to try. But he doesn’t know what else he can do.  
  
The way the house moves and sounds is too loud, every creak a chasm of sound, every hiss of the wind the soft hush of a snake in an apple tree.  
  
Castiel’s mind turns over the thought of falling into the dark unprotected again. An idea that he dismisses almost out of hand comes to him, but unable to find a decent replacement he decides he might as well run with it. Very slowly he brings his legs up towards his chest before turning over so he can face the wall instead. It feels more secure, but it’s still not… right. He pulls the blanket up around his shoulders, and the heavy weight wrapped around him calms him down slightly.  
  
It’s entirely irrational, but somehow it helps.  
  
The voids of sound shrink to noises; the whispering of a serpent turns back to the gentle gusts around the side of the house, and the world bares some semblance of normality.  
  
With the worst of his panic locked up, sleep takes Castiel in under a minute.  
  
________________________________________  
  
There is a small planet, nestled beside a small star. It is the most important planet in existence.  
  
Castiel knows this because his father tells him it is so.  
  
The planet has water, and earth, and air, and fire baked into it, and its soil can hold as much purity as an angel.  
  
Castiel knows this because his sister tells him it is so.  
  
The creatures that live on the earth’s surface and in its seas will be more important than anything except their father one day.  
  
Castiel knows this because his brother tells him it is so.  
  
When he’s not an angel he is practically useless, and he’s just going to get in everyone’s way.  
  
He knows this because the Dean in his head tells him so.  
  
________________________________________  
  
Castiel decides he hates spinach. It goes on a steadily increasing list of things he feels the painful emotion towards, including the smell of damp wood, the static on the radio, and more tightly than the others, dreams.  
  
Falsehoods, he knows, but sometimes frightening in their clarity. Four nights of sleep and only one had been free of voices telling him he was a Judas and a Lucifer, or just plain useless and worthless, and that had been when exhaustion had grabbed him after five nights without sleep at all and he’d collapsed into a chair in the corner of the kitchen.  
  
He’s thankful that whatever remains of his grace is stretching human limits for him. He’d slept four times in two weeks, and didn’t seem to be suffering for it so far, though he was still having trouble dealing with the missing parts of him. It was so quiet inside his head, and so dark outside of it. People’s expressions weren’t helping either- after being so accustomed to seeing emotion flicker over their souls the subtleties of the twitch of muscles were puzzling. People didn’t let their faces fit how they felt.  
  
Or Dean didn’t, anyway. Seeing him every day has just become frustrating. He smiles when he’s angry, he looks angry when he’s scared or unsure, and Castiel can’t help but begin to wonder if he’s doing it just to spite him. Dean’s is the only soul he can still see, lit up by the fragments of grace pinned to it, and even if it’s dimmed it’s the only familiarity he has.  
  
A solid thunk on the table in front of him drags him from his thoughts and he stares at the cold metal of the pistol that’s been put down for a moment before flicking his gaze up to Dean, still standing where he tossed it from.  
  
“What kind of gun is that?” It’s the kind of question Castiel’s been having dropped on him, as if he doesn’t know anything and needs to learn it all. He has difficult accessing some of the more obscure bits of knowledge in his memory, but having spent so much time around the Winchesters in the past few months has left this section as a frequently consulted one.  
  
“It’s a Pistol, Caliber .45, Automatic, M1911A1. You appear to have attached some sort of extended ejector to it. Just because I haven’t used firearms extensively doesn’t mean I don’t understand them.” He picks it up calmly, squeezing the left side of the pistol grip and removing the magazine. It’s all been learned from observation, but it’s not particularly difficult.  
  
He’s wary of doing anything else to it; there’s a chance he’ll make a mistake. He’s heard the voice that comes at night and sounds like Dean telling him he’s useless and unable to do anything enough that he doesn’t want to do anything that might prompt it from the real version.  
  
His friend looks down at him and begrudgingly nods. “You pick up how to hit things with it too?”  
  
Castiel nods. “I believe I could accurately shoot something with it.”  
  
The look on the other man’s face suggests he doesn’t believe it entirely, and he raises his eyebrows as he looks away. “If you say so. But tonight we’re going out so I can see if you can. Now you’ve not got your whole angelic super power deal you’ll need something to replace it.”  
  
“I appreciate your concern, but I am fine, Dean-“  
  
“Shut it, Cas. You sure as hell aren’t indestructible anymore, so do me a favour- quit arguing and take the gun.” The young man’s face holds hints of an expression Castiel doesn’t know how to decipher, but there’s a flicker of the strange little sharp wire he has cross his soul sometimes, and he acquiesces slowly.  
  
His fingers wrap around the removed magazine and he pulls that and the gun into his lap. “Thank you.”  
  
Dean shrugs a little awkwardly and moves for the doorway, stopping to glance over his shoulder before he leaves. “Six-thirty. I’ll meet you out back. Bring that with you.” He frowns and that strange sharp look crosses the bright green of his eyes again, only noticed by Castiel because he’s continued staring at him.  
  
He mutters something under his breath and leaves the other man sitting there, plate of abandoned food cooling in front of him and fingers wrapped tightly around the cold grip of the pistol.  
  
He sits and stares at it for a few minutes, cradling it gently.  
  
It’s his first possession.  
  
The clothes he’s wearing are cast offs and left behinds from hunters who have passed through, the things in the room he sleeps in belonging to the man who owns the house. Even his skin technically belongs to someone else. He glances up at the now vacant doorway and then back down to the gun in his lap.  
  
In return he can at least give Dean peace of mind.  
  
________________________________________  
  
The sun is beginning to drag itself down to the horizon when Dean arrives to find Castiel sitting cross legged on the grass, loaded gun held almost reverently in his broad fingered grip. He gets an attempt at a smile for appearing and the ancient being trapped in young skin climbs to his feet. “Did you have somewhere in particular to test me?”  
  
The young man pastes on his usual cocky half grin. “I do. There’s an outhouse at the end of the property. Shouldn’t be anybody down there.”  
  
The house is perched on the outskirts of town, the property, it turns out, stretches out for several hundred yards and, as promised, there’s a hut sitting on the edge of the land. Dean disappears into it and returns with a sheet of scrap metal and can of paint, brandishing them triumphantly. Castiel watches as he paints a simple target layout onto it in the congealing black slick that is apparently “raven feather” matte.  
  
He nods when he gets a glance about the size. “I can hit that.”  
  
Dean rolls his eyes and straightens up, wedging the metal between two fence posts before turning and grabbing at his friend’s arm. “Alright Annie Oakley, back up and show me.” He drags him back a good twenty yards before letting him go and stepping back to watch, humour tilting his lips at the corners.  
  
Castiel copies the stance he’s seen humans pull almost exactly, shoulders forward of his feet, his right hand around the grip and his left clasped over that. Aiming is no great difficulty- while he may not have used a firearm, projectiles were much older than that- and once he has the target lined up he squeezes the trigger gently.  
  
He isn’t expecting the recoil at affect him as much as it does and the shot goes wide, clipping a tree a good thirty feet behind the target instead. He hears a short snort of laughter and anger boils up from the pit of his stomach, cold and barbed. With his now lessened strength gauged he doesn’t even look around before firing the other six bullets held in the gun in quick succession, the tattoo of metal through metal echoing in the quiet.  
  
Calmly, anger seeming to have dissipated from inside his gut somehow, he turns his head to the hunter whose laugh has died in his throat. “I am almost as old as the earth itself, Dean. I have been a soldier as long as war has existed. Do not doubt me.”  
  
The look on the other man’s face is impassive, but there’s a strain of offended injury in the air around him, and Castiel lowers the gun and turns to face him, feeling something else stir in his stomach that is polar to the feeling from moments ago. Prompted by both things he shakes his head and goes on. “My apologies. I just don’t wish for you to think I’m entirely useless.”  
  
Dean’s face twists into confusion. “Okay, without your mojo you aren’t exactly Superman, but you clearly aren’t useless. Why’d you think I’d say that?”  
  
The fact that he’s saying it simply because he has proof crosses Castiel’s mind, but he shrugs, the gesture still tight from underuse. “The worry manifests itself in my dreams, but it’s of no real concern-“  
  
He gets cut across sharply. “Woah, woah, you’re having bad dreams? They aren’t some angelic prophecy thing, right?”  
  
“No. They are just irritating exhibitions of my current fears.” Castiel tilts his head to the side, and not for the first time considers how good it would be to touch the grace left on Dean’s soul. He’s taken the steps towards the other man before he’s really thought about it and he wraps his free hand around the top of the scarred bicep firmly.  
  
Once again the warm rush of the dregs of celestial power jolt through him and he relaxes more than he has in days as he reaches out with the remains of his grace. From the look on Dean’s face he’s experiencing some of the connection himself, though he’s ill-equipped to understand it. “I am unused to being alone.”  
  
Dean licks his lips absentmindedly, trying to organise his train of thought. He kind of understands what Cas is describing to him- hell, he’s felt it before, the first time he’d slept completely alone without Sam or his dad breathing quietly across the room, or a girl letting her heart thump against his chest. He’s used to it now, but he remembers the cool, unpleasant feeling. “You could’ve said, Cas.”  
  
It’s not a chick-flick thing- soldiers sleep better in barracks and that’s all Cas is, right? That’s his logic when he makes his offer anyway. “Look, if it’ll help you sleep you can bunk in my room. There’s two beds.”  
  
Hand still clenched around a shoulder, Castiel stares for a moment. “I… would be grateful.”  
  
While it’s so good to actually feel a little like an angel again he lets go of the other man’s shoulder and drops his hand to his side. He gets a slightly strained smile for doing so, and all he can think is that he really didn’t expect the offer.  
  
Later, when Dean is carelessly shucking a few layers of clothes for bed, lit only by the moonlight from the window and the glow under the door, Castiel realises he really didn’t expect human physicality to be such a powerful thing.  
  
It seems unnecessarily unfair for it to be just as potent whether he is awake or asleep.  
  
________________________________________  
  
“God, Cas, I don’t really do this for guys-“  
  
“I know, Dean.” Castiel tried his best to keep his voice steady as Dean’s hand palmed a little roughly at his erection but failed, biting out his friend’s name in a growl. It’d make a bishop blaspheme, the careful concentration on Dean’s face, tongue wetting his lips as he worked the other man towards climax. Castiel’s eyes slid shut as he rocked against the broad hand wrapped around him.  
  
“Keep your eyes open. I want to see those fucking beautiful eyes.” The older man couldn’t disobey an order when it came out sounding so low, and he fixed his gaze on Dean’s for a few moments before leaning in to kiss him again. The slick noise of wet lips against his own made him shudder, the curl of a whiskey heavy tongue in his mouth making him jerk in Dean’s hand.  
  
“Dean…” There might have been a point to that sentence, but whatever it was it was lost. It was becoming more difficult to think of words in general beyond “Please, just-“  
  
The light haired man shifted to bury his face in Castiel’s neck, lips settling over a pulse point. “I am so going to Hell again for this,” he murmured against the other man’s throat. The soft vibration of the growl ran through Castiel, and the accompanying jerk of a wrist undid him, sending him rocking into his friend’s hand.  
  
________________________________________  
  
Castiel wakes uncomfortably, rising into consciousness vaguely aware of a peculiar stickiness down his thigh-  
  
Oh.  
  
As new to being human as he is, he isn’t stupid. It was to be expected, after a finally falling asleep feeling safe. The only problem came in what to do about it.  
  
A shower, he decides, pulling himself out from under the soft blanket and curling his toes into the carpet.  
  
As he blearily wanders off to find the bathroom, he tries to catch the whispers of what the dream was about.  
  
Dean wakes ten minutes later to the rattle of pipes, confused at the time the watch on his bedside table was showing. He’d slept through most of the night. Well, he’d slept for seven hours, and for him that was a record these days.  
  
Maybe he has missed sharing a room.  
  
He rubs his eyes and rolls onto his back, the empty bed across the room revealing the identity of the person in the shower. If Cas is feeling this good, he decides, it’s time to get everything fixed up so they can move on.  
  
________________________________________  
  
Dean ends up roping in as many of the people passing through as he can to sand the rough edges off of Castiel’s humanity. The fallen angel agrees with the wisdom of it, and manages to get a hold of a notebook to write down what he’s expected to learn. It gets laughs and strange smiles, but it’s only sensible- humans cannot retain information as easily as angels can.  
  
The first person the Winchester manages to grab is Ginger, in exchange for a hand on her hunt in town. She agrees with the indifferent “need to wait until nightfall, anyway.” She pulls up a chair at the kitchen table, laughs like a drain at Castiel's careful note taking, and tries to figure out where to start. When she figures out that he's missing how to tie his shoes, she leans in, red hair swinging into her eyes, and stage whispers that this is the easiest favour she's ever had to do.  
  
He nods and continues to wrap his fingers around the laces, wondering why human fingers are so clumsy with knots so close to them. Her entire posture smiles when he gets it.  
  
"You know how to shave?" The tip of her tongue pokes out of the corner of her mouth as she asks, and when he shakes his head she laughs again. "Me neither."  
  
He nods at the statement and carefully adds it to his to-do list. Organisation comes naturally.  
  
When he explains that to her, she inexplicably laughs again.  
  
The next person Dean pulls in- something which actually translates as getting Terry, the house's owner, to watch Cas while he goes out to get some I.D. made- does show him how to shave. Castiel isn't entirely sure if he likes being completely clean shaven, but it's closer to what he's used to than actual facial hair, and he only cuts himself once when his hand jerks after being held still for too long.  
  
Every name goes down into Castiel’s little notebook, along with anything useful they teach him. Louis tells him how the FBI and the police systems work in reference to getting information and access where he otherwise wouldn’t. Phil uses the time as an excuse to eat, explaining basic cooking. Hannah tries to teach him how to cheat at cards and announces that he’s great at keeping a poker face and terrible at lying.  
  
The first time Cas gets to sit down and actually talk to Dean isn’t for another two days, and the conversation takes place over a stack of cards with his photograph printed in the corner.  
  
“Made everything I can think of that we didn’t have. Now you’re going to learn ‘em.”  
  
If they’re jokes, they go over his head. The mildly confused face stares up at him from the table, a dozen puzzled expressions mirroring his own. “This is not my name. Why are you asking me to say it is?”  
  
"When we went looking for Raphael the first time, I told you that humans lie to get what we want. So you need to get better at it."  
  
  
  
Castiel's eyes flick up to Dean's face. How were they going to test something so intangible?  
  
  
  
"What's your name?" Dean stares at him, all traces of familiarity gone from his face.  
  
  
  
"Castiel-"  
  
  
  
"Wrong." The hunter takes the top ID from the stack and pushes it towards him. "What's your name?"  
  
  
  
A brief glance downwards. "George Lucas."  
  
  
  
"And what do you do, George?"  
  
  
  
"I work for Pylon Insurance," he reads off of the top of the card, frowning slightly.  
  
  
  
Dean looks decidedly unimpressed by the attempt. "Nice and believable there, George."  
  
  
  
Castiel's frown deepens and he looks up, his expression stormy. The anger is more directed inwards at himself than at Dean though- lying was one of the first things humans learned to do as children- he should be able to master it. He leans back, calming himself, and shuts his eyes in thought. George, from the Insurance Company, would be a human who was harangued. Yes, and always slightly tired with everything. His wife would be discontent and his children ungrateful.  
  
He wouldn't know anything about the supernatural, or even believe in it.  
  
  
  
A small change comes over his face as he thinks, frown settling into place, and as he looks back up he manages a much more believable attempt. “My name is George Lucas, from Pylon Insurance.”  
  
Dean gives him a half smile. It’s not a great lie, but it’s better than before. He pushes another card across the table, and laughs at Castiel’s puzzled expression, back in full force.  
  
Okay, it’s a start.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  The world is ending, and everything is going to Hell in a handbasket. A man named Dean Winchester is becoming a leader, an angel named Castiel is falling from grace, and somewhere another man and the devil do the same dance in reverse. 

 

They move on the next morning. Castiel wakes up to the few things he owns already thrown into a bag for him and Dean loading up the car. The fact he gets a grin when he steps outside makes something inside him warm up. The way the bag gets pulled out of his arms and slung into the trunk with the kind of fluid motion that only comes with practice… it almost makes him feel like he might belong here.  
  
It’s as if one of Dean’s walls has come down, letting him in just a touch more. Maybe it’s just to try and help him adjust to being fallen, maybe it’s because for once they aren’t in a conversation about the fate of the world full of things they only half understand, but it feels more like… actual companionship.  
  
Even Dean’s singing along with the radio makes him smile.  
  
It’s only once they stop for gas that he remembers to ask where their destination is. Dean tosses him a vacuum packed sandwich from the gas station as he climbs back behind the wheel and turns to face him. “I was thinking we go look up Chuck again. Angels have abandoned us by the looks of things, but if anybody can tell us for sure, it’s got to be the guy tuned into their station, right?”  
  
It’s a sound plan. Castiel says as much as he tries, with some difficulty, to open the plastic packaging. By the time he has, they’re back on the highway, the radio turned back up to deafening. Unable to make conversation over it, he settles for digging into his sandwich, his stomach making thankful noises even at the thought.  
  
“Are you trying to poison me?” He asks around a mouthful of artificial cheese and stiff bread, trying not to gag. The look on his face makes Dean laugh like a drain and swerve the car to the side.  
  
“Not everything’s going to be homemade super cookery dude. Crappy food’s part of being a hunter.” The Winchester turns his attention back to the road, grin still fixed into place. He doesn’t notice the scowl shot his way, or if he does it just amuses him more.  
  
Glaring balefully down at the sandwich, Castiel takes another tentative bite, and they spend the rest of the journey in silence.  
  
Neither of them are surprised to find Chuck answering the door in underwear and a dressing gown at two in the afternoon and Dean pushes past him as confidently as if it’s his own house. The writer stammers a few inarticulate noises at him before giving up and turning to Castiel. His expression slips from exasperated to concerned in a moment.  
  
Castiel doesn’t need angelic powers to see there’s still at least some of the prophet left in the other man, and he refuses to focus on the pitying look. Seemingly figuring out what he’s doing wrong, Chuck looks away and after Dean instead before the temptation to say something is too much and he says quietly. “I saw what happened. I’m sorry. You’ve always been one of the good angels.”  
  
“Yes, well, what’s done is done. We need your help with something else.” Castiel brushes past the prophet without looking at him, following the other man’s course into the living room. Dean is glancing around in bewilderment, and his mouth is half open to ask a question when a whirl of blond hair and excitement elbows past Chuck to stop in front of the ex-angel.  
  
Becky stares up at him in amazement. “So this is Castiel, right? Wow, his eyes really are that blue. Or I guess Jimmy’s eyes are. Doesn’t matter. He is what I pictured, totally.”  
  
She inhales sharply but before she can go off on another spiel, Dean returns the favour and cuts her off; getting to finish the question he’d started. “Dude, you’ve been banging Becky?”  
  
Chuck has the decency to look mildly embarrassed as he pulls his girlfriend away from Castiel and tucks an arm around her. Not for appearances or affection so much as to stop her poking at her target again. Becky’s grin chases away any of the doubt that might have been on the matter. Dean rubs the bridge of his nose as he shakes his head, clearing a mental image away. “Whatever. We want to know if you can still pull all your prophet mojo-“  
  
“He can,” answers Castiel, and gets a questioning look for his trouble. He gestures that it doesn’t matter and Dean goes on.  
  
“Okay, we want to know what happened to all the angels. One minute they were here, the next they’d vanished into thin air without even one last crack at the Michael thing.”  
  
“They’ve given up,” Chuck replies, rubbing his foot on the worn out carpet. “Said they’re going to leave this planet to its fate and come back and start anew later. I don’t even get messages about the future from them anymore, just the flashes of what’s going on right now.”  
  
Even Becky’s face falls at the admittance, and the hope seems to slip out of the room quietly, taking most of the sound with it. It takes a throat clearing for Dean to be able to ask his follow up question, chasing anything that might take his mind off of the abandonment. “Hey, Chuck…”  
  
“Yeah?” Comes the soft response.  
  
“What’s happening to Sam?”  
  
________________________________________

A man and his fallen angel walk into a bar.  
  
It sounds like a joke, and out of the few people it can apply to, Lucifer is the only one laughing.  
  
The place isn’t the buzzing social scene usually expected in those jokes any more. It’s been a base for a group of demons for the past week, Sam’s heard, and as he pushes the door in he frowns in surprise at the sight of only one person. He pads across the floor lightly, gun still outstretched and pointed at the back of the blond head poking up from one of the booths.  
  
He’s only a few feet away when a voice that chills him cuts through the quiet. “Joining me for lunch, Sam?”  
  
The man turns to face him, and while Sam hadn’t recognised him from the back, the face has appeared in his dreams so often it’s seared into his brain. “Lucifer.”  
  
The devil shifts to look at him fully, and Sam can see why the place is so empty of demons. Lying pinned to the table by some invisible force is a girl with the onyx eyes of possession, a deep cut running along her collarbone. As Lucifer turns to him completely the smudge of blood at the corner of his mouth becomes evident.  
  
Sam feels sick.  
  
He’s backing towards the door as quickly as he can without breaking Lucifer’s gaze, but his back hits doors firmly held shut, presumably by the same power holding the demon down. The angel doesn’t bother to get up from his seat, but gestures across from him. “This is our first face to face conversation, Sam. At least give me some common courtesy.”  
  
Sam stares, door handles still digging into his back, and Lucifer shakes his head. “Sit and talk for… let’s say, ten minutes, and I’ll open the doors. You can walk free.”  
  
There’s not a speck of belief in Sam’s eyes, but he doesn’t have much choice but to go with it for now. Cautiously he crosses the floor again and slides into the seat across from Lucifer, trying his best to ignore the body draped over the table.  
  
In desperation to find something to look at, his eyes are drawn to a glass, sitting on the edge of the tabletop. After a few moments it begins to fill with something red and viscous and his eyes snap up to Lucifer again. The angel smiles but continues making his short hand motion, drawing blood from one place to another.  
  
Sam stares in a sort of morbid fascination as the glass fills to just below the top and Lucifer picks it up and takes a mouthful as if it’s lemonade. The devil puts the glass back down and frowns at him. “How are you coping, Sam?”  
  
Much as he doesn’t want to engage in conversation, the deal was he would talk. He could spare a word or two if it would help towards getting him out. “Fine.”  
  
The sharp response earns him a sigh. “You don’t have to lie about this. I know what it’s like to be separated from a brother you love.”  
  
Begrudgingly Sam answers again. “I am fine. I’ve been away from him for longer than this before.”  
  
Lucifer pauses to take another mouthful of blood and stares straight through him. “Fine, that was four years, this has been one. But you had someone then, and you aren’t letting anyone in now.”  
  
It’d be much better, Sam thinks as he continues staring anywhere but the other man’s face, if he could just be wrong for once. It takes him a while to respond, not that it seems to bother the angel who continues drinking and waiting as if it’s a casual lunch date. “People will get hurt if I do. Anybody I let in dies.”  
  
“Sam,” Lucifer answers with a sigh in his voice. “You shouldn’t treat yourself this way. Just because you can’t save these people doesn’t mean you cause their misfortune.”  
  
Sam blinks and finally looks up, aware the confusion must be written across his face, or even just in his eyes. It almost sounds like an attempt at comfort, from the devil no less. There’s nothing malicious in Lucifer’s expression, nothing sarcastic or cutting in his tone. He looks sad.  
  
The moment of wondering clears, and Sam distances himself from the words again. It’s another attempt at tempting him, that’s all. Some cheap ploy to try and make him into a vessel.  
  
“And besides,” Lucifer continues, watching the train of thought play out across Sam’s mind and smiling internally, “So many of them deserve it. You don’t. You should let someone in, Sam. There’s someone who understands what you feel.”  
  
The young man waits for an answer, even though he knows what the next word is bound to be. The feeling he gets when he’s proved right isn’t particularly satisfactory though.  
  
“Me.”  
  
The clock on the wall behind Lucifer’s head has ticked round, and thankfully, Sam stands again, ignoring the point entirely. Ten minutes was what the conditions were, and he’s sat for them. Lucifer looks at him sadly before making a gesture at the door. It’s almost too easy, and Sam expects it to swing closed again as he moves towards it. Just before he exits, Lucifer’s voice calls out a final time.  
  
“You don’t see it yet, but you will. You were made for me, and in time you’ll realise that I’m going to be the only one who knows what it’s like to be you.”  
  
Sam strides out, finds his car, and doesn’t look back until he’s a hundred miles away.  
  
________________________________________  
  
“So he knows nothing of any import.”  
  
“Looks that way.” Dean’s voice is low, and his grip on the steering wheel is so tight his knuckles have begun to turn stark white against the dark material.  
  
He should’ve known not to get his hopes up, really. Nothing ever goes the way he wants it to, so why should something like this? No hide nor hair of either the angels or his brother, and wasn’t that typical? Everything coming up shit for Dean Winchester.  
  
He doesn’t realise he’s speeding well over the limit until Castiel’s grip around his forearm tightens to painful, and he jerks away angrily. The Impala swerves slightly but he regains control before turning to glare at his passenger. “You don’t need to bruise it. Calm the hell down.”  
  
Castiel raises his eyebrows, and a scoff makes its way out of his throat. “You’re the one who’s this close to breaking the sound barrier. This isn’t the end, Dean, it’s just a setback.”  
  
“A setback? Right, sure, just like the iceberg that hit the Titanic was a setback.”  
  
Castiel tightens his grip again before pulling away completely. “Fine. Have this attitude. We still have options, things to try, but no- one small error in his plan and Dean Winchester falls to pieces. Let the world burn then. See if I care.” He slumps in his seat and glares out at the road through the windshield. The skies threaten rain, possibly even a storm, and he welcomes it.  
  
Dean doesn’t know where he’s driving to. He’s just driving away from the bad news. Maybe he can stop in a town somewhere, have a drink, and try to put it out of his head. He’ll never admit it, but Cas has a point. There’s still things left to try- finding the Colt, stopping some of the rituals… But right now he wants something more down to earth. Right now he wants to forget about angels and demons and the end of the world.  
  
It’s that part of him that always strives for normality, and its usually soft call is now almost a screech.  
  
A drink, a girl, and putting it out of his head.  
  
Definitely what he needs.  
  
________________________________________  
  
Before the guy behind the reception desk can even give them the side eye, Dean pulls out a wad of cash and announces “Two rooms, one single, one queen.”  
  
As the young man makes a note, takes the money, and fetches the keys, Dean turns to Castiel with his layout of the evening. “Okay Cas, you’re going to go to your room, and search for some nice apocalypse signs we can deal with somewhere in the area. I’m going to go out, canvas the locals, and have a drink or two. Okay?”  
  
The way he says it doesn’t make it sound like a question, and Castiel can’t find anything in it to argue about. He gets a heavy clap on the back before Dean makes a break for it and goes to socialise. He doesn’t mind particularly though- he’s got enough to do to keep him occupied.  
  
Well, it keeps him occupied for the first hour. The little news stories paint the colour of humanity very well- everything from bake sales to murder and cannibalism. He spends most of the second hour skimming through global news out of interest, and as the third ticks around it prompts him to go for a shower to relieve the boredom.  
  
It’s still new, boredom. As an angel he could stand stock still for hours, listening to prayers or seeing the world or just… existing. It was enough.  
  
But trapped inside this soft brain tucked away behind human eyes, it isn’t. He needs something to listen to, or look at. Any kind of stimulation to stop him going insane.  
  
Through the wall of the shower he hears Dean’s room door open and his heart lifts. Some kind of distraction-  
  
“Sweetie you don’t even know what I’m going to do to you.”  
  
The voice is definitely not Dean’s, but the answering chuckle is, and Castiel blinks for a moment in incomprehension before he makes the connection. Of course Dean’s going to have found someone to have sex with. He rolls his eyes as the woman seems to giggle and he rubs the shampoo into his hair roughly in irritation. The door slams and with the creak of bedsprings coming through the wall, he realises the bed is backed right against the wall where it meets his shower.  
  
Shoddy planning work, clearly.  
  
He’s got most of the shampoo out again when he hears Dean moan, and he stops. The woman’s been quiet for a short while, any of her noises muffled, and it becomes apparent exactly what her mouth is occupied with as Dean makes another keening noise.  
  
Castiel finds himself wondering what it tastes like. Angels don’t have a sense of taste and the wonder of how Dean would feel on his tongue draws him into a reverie.  
  
“Come on sweetie, don’t want you to go before we really get a chance to feel it.”  
  
Is that meant to sound enticing, Castiel wonders, before drowning her out again in favour of listening to his friend. There’s another gap before he hears anything again over the shower, and it’s more noise from her again when he does.  
  
Strangely disappointed he continues washing his hair until he hears the first blasphemy roll past Dean’s lips. It’s nothing more than an “Oh god” but it travels down Castiel’s spine to his cock without any stop at his brain.  
  
Dean gets progressively louder, and Castiel isn’t sure exactly when he started loosely jerking himself off in time with the rattle of the headboard against the wall, but it’s not important. It feels good, that’s all that’s important. He speeds up along with the couple instinctively, though he’s stopped thinking of them as a couple for several minutes. In his mind’s eye it’s just Dean, stretched out and enjoying himself. The sound of Dean coming finishes him, and Castiel stares- slightly breathlessly- into space for a minute.  
  
He comes to his senses because while the shower washes away the worst of it, it’s not perfect, and he finishes cleaning himself up while trying not to think.  
  
________________________________________  
  
It’s only five in the morning when Dean invites himself into Castiel’s room and throws himself down on the bed. The other man wakes with a jolt and lashes out sharply, catching the side of Dean’s head in a back handed flail.  
  
“Woah, woah, calm down.” The injured party rubs his ear and half chuckles. “Suddenly glad you don’t sleep with a knife under your pillow.”  
  
His mood is much improved from yesterday, cheerfulness plastered across his face. Still getting used to the whole idea of waking up, let alone being dragged from sleep at an early hour, Castiel doesn’t quite share his enthusiasm. He resigns himself to grumbling as he gets out of bed and makes a beeline for his clothes. Even as he’s still pulling the jeans out to tuck under his arm Dean’s back behind him, questioning.  
  
“So, find out anything interesting last night?”  
  
Several answers spring to mind, and he’s surprised how vindictive some of them are. Pushing all comments about how interesting Dean’s evening must’ve been aside, he stops at the bathroom door and nods. Before he can be questioned further, he slips inside and shuts the door in his friend’s face with no small satisfaction.  
  
He doesn’t think he spends long in the dingy little room, but when he comes out again the paper cup of coffee offered to him says otherwise. Must be from the place down the street- why is it even open this early? Being dressed and considerably more awake helps improve his mood to something bearable, and he folds himself cross legged on the bed to explain.  
  
“I searched the internet but didn’t find anything useful. But then I performed a few spells and it seems there’s a large gathering of demons in the next town over. Numbers suggest they’re guarding something important.”  
  
Realisation blooms across Dean’s face, accompanied by a modicum of hope. “You think it might be the Colt?”  
  
“I think it might be the Colt.”  
  
It might only be a maybe, but it’s the best news he’s had in a long time and he lets out a whoop of pleased laughter. “Damn. Cas, I could kiss you right now.”  
  
Castiel tilts his head to the side in that familiar, mildly curious way of his. “Will you?”  
  
If Castiel looks confused, Dean looks off the deep end of perplexed. “What?”  
  
“You could kiss me. Will you?”  
  
Nervously, not sure if they’re edging along the line between serious and joking, Dean laughs. “What, you want me to?”  
  
After a moment, Castiel nods. As an angel he’d loved Dean- that all-encompassing love that came with the shackles of celestial life- but since he was caged behind the physical walls and chemicals of being human, it’d turned into something more sharp and personal. And certainly his body seems to like Dean. He matches the stare he’s given as he thinks, not saying a word, and eventually it forces Dean to break the silence.  
  
“Uh, why?”  
  
“As an angel I always found your soul beautiful. Given flesh and blood of my own, it seems to find you attractive too. And you mean a lot to me.” He hasn’t noticed he’s leaning forward slightly, expectantly. “That’s what humans do when they mean a lot to each other. They kiss.”  
  
Put like that, it doesn’t sound as bad as it does in Dean’s head. Moment of comfort for the poor guy, that’s what he can write it off as, he thinks as he jerks forward and presses their lips together. It’s painfully awkward, with Cas frozen with his mouth open a few degrees, and he pulls back sheepishly. “There, you happy?”  
  
Castiel stares at the air for a moment longer, turning something over in his mind. Without warning he launches forward in turn, bringing their mouths together in a wet, messy kiss. Somewhere in Dean’s head, between the thoughts ‘this isn’t so bad’ and ‘why am I doing this’, came the comprehension that Cas had been taking notes the first time.  
  
It’s over in a few seconds and Castiel pulls back with a warm smile on his face. It’s the first just pleased smile Dean’s seen on his face.  
  
He ignores the twist in his gut at seeing it. “So, let’s get moving. No point hanging around if we know we’ve got somewhere to go, right?”  
  
The majority of Castiel’s brain groans at the anticipation of a painful leg cramp.  
  
The part of him clinging to angelhood is horrified.  
  
________________________________________  
  
No no not right not good past this no don’t need don’t want god I want so bad shouldn’t wouldn’t but-  
  
Sam’s mind loops over again as he tries to shake the feeling off. Horseman, this was a horseman, Famine, he doesn’t need… He doesn’t need anything. It’s just a trick.  
  
Trick or not, the acrid smell of blood seems to be all around him, like a thousand demons are bleeding out into the street. He stumbles through a haze, trying to keep a grip on himself, when suddenly something else cuts through the air like a knife.  
  
It’s new and perfect and he wants it so badly he aches.  
  
He staggers out onto the main street, deserted at this time of night, and glances around sharply. It’s not quite deserted after all.  
  
Lucifer smiles at him, standing serenely in the middle of the road with his arms outstretched as if he’s a martyr. At the top of each forearm is a deep cut straight across, and with willpower keeping the wounds open, blood slides freely to his wrists. Internally Sam recoils, but out loud he whines.  
  
He doesn’t feel in control of his feet any more as he strides up the road and smears a hand with the thick liquid. The hunger inside him wonders what angels taste like. He licks his palm and drops to his knees as his appetite says this is what it wants.  
  
The small part of him still rational flinches in disgust as his lips press against the thick line of a cut and laps at the blood there, and the rest of him doesn’t care. After Ruby, how can he get worse? At least this isn’t a demon.  
  
No, states that tiny part clinging on, just the devil.  
  
Lucifer’s hand to the back of his head doesn’t help the feeling that comes with this kind of act, that it’s something lower and baser than anything else. His blood thrums in harmony; his skin feels like it’s burning, all against the contrast of the cool skin under his mouth.  
  
“Good boy, Sam.”  
  
The comment makes his stomach twist with disgust, but the voice that comes tumbling out of his mouth in response doesn’t show it. “Lucifer,” he mutters, resting his forehead against the angel’s thigh. If nothing else the fog is slowly peeling back from his brain, and leaving behind in its wake a buzzing exhilaration. Sam feels like he can run for miles, bend steel, do anything. It takes him another moment to register Lucifer is talking again.  
  
“Didn’t want Famine to be the reason you finally drank your milk Sam. But you needed something.” The hand in his hair strokes the back of his head. “It’ll keep it away until you choose me of your own free will.”  
  
Suddenly he’s gone, and left clutching thin air, Sam feels incredibly, impossibly alone.  
  
________________________________________  
  
By the time Dean and Castiel have scoped out the building the conglomeration of demons have settled into, it becomes obvious that they aren’t getting in.  
  
One or two would be no problem, half a dozen possible, ten might be worth a shot.  
  
There’s twenty-six demons at Dean’s count, twenty-eight at Castiel’s which includes the two hanging around the main entrance. While Dean manages to keep his business like stoicism and silence up until they get back to the car, there he lets out a colourful stream of insults and profanities. Castiel’s attempt at a comforting hand on the shoulder is shrugged off as the other man turns and leans against the side of the Impala, staring up at the sky. “It’s right there. Right there and we can’t even get it.”  
  
This isn’t the first time this has happened to Castiel. Or the second, or the third. When you spend your existence as a warrior, patterns tend to repeat themselves. And there had always been a way around the problem. “If we had more hunters… Even if we could get enough to have one to every two demons, we’d have a decent chance.”  
  
Dean, still full of pent up anger, is about to ask who died and made Cas a demon strategy expert until he realises that Cas is. “More hunters. I can think of a couple.”  
  
Gathering a big group he can trust might not be so easy, but Bobby’s bound to have a couple more hunters on a list somewhere. He can feel his mood mellowing out at the thought. It doesn’t destroy the nagging point at the back of his brain saying that it’s probably not going to be here by the time they’re all gathered, but it’s better than nothing. “Need to put in some calls- looks like we’re staying overnight here too.” By the time everything is organised, at best it’s going to have to wait until tomorrow- and that’s heavy on the optimism.  
  
The motel they end up at is nicer than the last one, Castiel thinks, as Dean asks for a twin room behind him. Cleaner anyway. A hand with the keys dangling from it gets extended to him as the transaction gets squared up. In the off chance it might brighten Dean’s mood, like it had brightened his, as he reaches forward to take them he leans forward another few inches to press a kiss to the side of his mouth.  
  
He doesn’t notice, as he walks away to find room 145, that Dean has gone rigid in embarrassment, or that the man behind the desk has given them a raised eyebrow and a look that doesn’t require any cursory comments. Hastily wrapping up the squaring of the money, Dean strides off after him, shoulders squared.  
  
“What the hell was that about?” Dean’s irritation only provokes confusion from Castiel, who stops in the middle of digging something out from his duffel with a frown.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Why’d you kiss me?”  
  
Castiel stares at him, expression clearly showing how he thinks he’s already answered this question. “You’re upset. I thought being reminded I care about you would be a comfort.”  
  
The logic is, in a Cas way, sound, and Dean can’t think of any way to explain why it wasn’t without sounding like a total jerk off. He pinches the bridge of his nose instead and says, “Maybe… not in public, Cas? A lot of people don’t like it.”  
  
Castiel gives him another thousand mile stare before taking the steps needed to close the gap between them and pressing his dry, chapped lips against Dean’s. “There,” he finishes, still well inside the other man’s personal space, “Not in public.”  
  
As he moves away to return to his previous job, Dean finds, despite himself, that he’s a little bit turned on.  
  
It takes him a good half a minute after he pulls out his phone for him to remember who he was going to call.  
  
________________________________________  
  
They get Jo on board pretty quickly, and Ellen comes as part of the deal. Bobby manages to set them up with Rufus, and some guy named Garth without even thinking. A distant relative of Dean’s called Gwen gets pulled out of the woodwork too. Lauren, the woman who’d hung around to look after Castiel in his comatose state, declares she’s not crazy enough to try it- and so does the next hunter, and the next, and the next.  
  
After the tenth “Sorry, but-“, Castiel kisses him again.  
  
Dean doesn’t complain.  
  
________________________________________  
  
As their luck would have it, by the time there’s anything like a group gathered together, the entire group of demons have cleared out, taking their treasure with them.  
  
“Son of a bitch,” Dean curses far too loudly in the diner, getting a confused look from a waitress and a look of pure venom from an elderly woman two tables away. His face is like thunder, and the girl burdened with serving the large group scurries back behind the counter to get away from his murderous look. “If you guys could’ve gotten here sooner-“  
  
“Hey, hold up there. We had our own problems.” Ellen cuts across him bluntly, not willing to pretend to put up with his loose cannon of blame. “Four kids in the town we were working ‘went off the deep end’ and started killing anybody they could get their hands on. Don’t even know what caused it! We couldn’t just drop everything for you.”  
  
Gwen, around a mouthful of food she’d desperately ordered as if she hasn’t been fed in a week, makes a noise of agreement. She starts a sentence before stopping to swallow and cough. Upon recovery, her tone is far from friendly. “Especially for what could be, might be, a gun that maybe, just might stop the devil.” She takes another, more manageable bite and finishes, “You’re a good hunter, but I’d be happier with something little more concrete than that.”  
  
Dean fumes quietly and opens his mouth to reply, but before the words come out he’s stilled by the tight grip on his forearm. Under the table, Castiel’s wrapped a hand around his arm. The warning look comes next- leave it, it’ll only make it worse, it says. Ungraciously he manages to swallow some of his irritation and lets out a long breath instead. “I get it. But let’s face it- even could be might be is better than anything else anybody’s managed to pull out of their ass.” The hand on his arm loosens but doesn’t move away, and he gets into his stride. “But I know that gun. Lilith, demon number one, she was scared of that thing. And you said it could’ve killed you, right Cas?”  
  
Trying to ignore the fact that the sentence had been in the past tense, Castiel flicks his gaze around the table at the gathered hunters. “I believe so.”  
  
He’s saved from having to elaborate by Dean jumping back in. “It can kill angels, and that’s all the devil is- an angel with an attitude problem. We get that gun, we can shoot him in the face and,“ he can’t quite keep a straight face as he ends, “Save the world.”  
  
There’s a moment’s pause, drowned out by the hustle and bustle of the diner that had been chosen because of it, and when someone speaks, it’s not who Dean expected.  
  
Rufus, sitting in the corner, clears his throat and puts his hand down on the table. “I’m in. It’s not going to be good not being able to help as many people if I’m on call, but this is better in the long run. No point saving people if they ain’t going to have a world to go back to.”  
  
Jo nods before Ellen can say anything either way. “I’m behind you.”  
  
“I hate to ruin the party,” Ellen cuts in again, genuinely sounding regretful, “But if any of us do find out where it is, what’s the chances we’ll get anybody who can help there before they move it again?”  
  
“I would recommend a centre of operations. A base of some sort.” It’s Castiel as the voice of wisdom, his bright blue eyes taking in everyone’s reactions to the suggestion. “It only has to be temporary- long enough to end this. A few months maximum.”  
  
It’s surprisingly easy to set up. Castiel the soldier shines through brilliantly, and with a little explanation of some of the more human of the social graces , his organisation comes in handy. Some old summer camp ground selling dirt cheap, a couple more hunters pulled in because it’s actually a more solid sounding plan… And hey, it’s only for a little while, and it’s saving the goddamn world, right?  
  
Dean opens the camp and they take a few pictures- everyone musters up a smile.  
  
A week later, the Croatoan virus is mentioned, though not by name, in six different states.  
  
Within six months, it’s a ‘health concern’. Scientists clumsily name it the Intense Rage Potency Virus because they have no better idea of what else they can call it.  
  
A year after that, it becomes a global pandemic.  
  
Dean doesn’t notice any of this, the fear and the tension and the people screaming end of days at the sky.  
  
Because the day the announcement comes through is also the day that another announcement makes its way to the camp that never moved on.  
  
It isn’t televised. It doesn’t make much difference to most of the people there.  
  
But it’s the most important news in the world.  
  
________________________________________  
  
“You know, I’ve kind of missed this.”  
  
Dean spares Cas a glances as he ducks under the wooden plank being swung at him and shoves the possessed man holding it hard against the wall. “Missed what? Being attacked?”  
  
Cas laughs and punches a woman in the face as she goes for him, sweeping around her in the kind of fluid motion that only comes from practice. “No.” He shoulders her through a half open doorway and smirks as she goes stumbling into the devil’s trap waiting for her. “It being this easy.”  
  
Even Dean has to admit, it’s been a breeze. Two not very bright demons being loud and noisy in the town closest to the camp where everyone picked up their supplies from. No back up, no plan, no wariness about the gathering of hunters- and hunter’s families- just a few miles away. He echoes the laugh and forces the other demon into the circle without much of a problem.  
  
“You guys are getting sloppy. It’s pretty insulting really. How stupid are you?” Dean’s tone is his usual pre-exorcism taunt, but it doesn’t have the effect it’s supposed to have on the pair. The worry travels across both his and Cas’ faces as instead, the woman laughs. “What’s so funny?”  
  
She grins at him, messy blonde hair in a tangle around her face. “We weren’t being stupid, jackass. We were celebrating.”  
  
Dean’s blood runs cold at the thought, trying to unravel what it might be. The woman laughs at him, and then twice as hard at Cas’ expression of realisation behind him. “The little plucked birdy knows. Something wonderful happened in Detroit the other day sweetie.”  
  
The answer is looming, an elephant in the room that he wants to ignore with every fibre of his being. At his clenched jaw and refusal to play along, she crows with misplaced glee. “Our god took his true visage at last and he is glorious. He shines so bright.”  
  
“Speak English, bitch.” His blunt ignoring of what she means is desperation more than anything else. Maybe he misheard her, maybe she means something else, anything that isn’t what he fears it most to be.  
  
Her tone turns saccharine and she coos like a preschool teacher explaining something to a child. “Well this big boy named Sammy fell to his knees in front of an angel and said ‘take me I’m yours’ and let the angel inside him.”  
  
The demon in the man, not one to let an obvious joke go past, leans over her shoulder with a smile. “In the celestial sense o’ course. Everybody knows he’s been full of angel for months-“  
  
Dean’s knuckles catch him across the jaw so hard he’s thrown back against the invisible barrier of the seal. He can hear his blood screaming in his ears, drowning out the chanting of Latin from over his shoulder. He’s ready to go another round, tear those lying scum-suckers apart with his bare hands when the black smoke streams out of them like a locomotive and the bodies drop to the floor.  
  
His world goes off kilter, and he doesn’t quite realise that the only reason he hasn’t hit the floor too is that Cas is holding him up because his knees have gone from under him. One of his friend’s broad hands cradles the back of his head in a gesture he doesn’t have the energy to stop. “Sam,” he mutters into Cas’ collar, not crying, not angry, just empty. “How could you fucking do this?”  
  
________________________________________  
  
There is, of course, always two sides to every story.  
  
Sam is as oblivious as to what’s happening to Dean as Dean is what’s happening to him. The first time Dean and Castiel kissed, he was stuck in a motel room fighting off the magic of a horseman. The first time they share a bed- bone tired and unable to care- Sam’s getting dragged from one by a demon with a bone to pick. The first time they go past that to somewhere intimate and decide they don’t give a crap about what they are, Sam has a dream that wakes from in a cold sweat. All he remembers about it is flying.  
  
His life gets hard. He stops talking to Bobby, when he won’t leave the whole thing as it is, and slowly but surely, his life gets lonely.  
  
He travels around because he can’t avoid hunting- and if he’s the one that broke the world he should work towards fixing it. Demons are easy to deal with, at least, because most of them won’t dare touch him. So every week it’s new faces, new people, new places that all drift away as quickly as they came. Sometimes he saves them- sometimes he doesn’t. But there’s no constant any more- not even the purr of the impala.  
  
Well. There’s one constant.  
  
Every night, when Sam goes to sleep, he sees Lucifer. After the first few stilted attempts, the angel doesn’t talk, doesn’t take someone else’s form, doesn’t do anything at all.  
  
He just watches.  
  
After the meeting over the demon girl, something changes slightly. Sam finds himself complaining about the devil’s presence, muttering that he should go away, actually addressing the fact he’s there.  
  
And Lucifer listens.  
  
The incident with Famine marks another change, but on the other end. Sam goes back to trying to pretend Lucifer isn’t there, and Lucifer…  
  
He follows Sam into his dream worlds, his fantasies, his concocted motel rooms, and touches him. Like a father. Like a sibling. A hand fixing his hair or weighing on his shoulder.  
  
And it’s nice. No matter what happens, it’s a presence that can’t think worse of him.  
  
So one day, after losing an entire family to a mother that wouldn’t listen and a restless spirit that wouldn’t leave, Sam reaches out back and finds out that the hollow between the devil’s neck and his shoulder and the hand curled on his back feels like what he imagines being held by a parent feels like.  
  
He starts to talk, Lucifer keeps listening, and eventually something finally helps with the pain of losing Dean. “I just miss my brother,” he mutters exhaustedly, drained by the knowledge of how built up Dean’s little camp is getting and how he can’t even help. After a moment, and in a voice full of a sadness thousands if not millions of years in the making, Lucifer replies to him, for the first time. “I know the feeling.”  
  
It hangs around in his brain- that thought that Lucifer understands. Through the prompting the angel to talk about Michael, through the communities that fall to the Croatoan virus, through Chicago getting wiped off the map, it echoes and sticks there as a reminder he still isn’t alone.  
  
It makes saying yes seem easy.  
  
Castiel will convince Dean later that Sam’s last thought was a sad one of him, and neither of them will ever come to know that the last singular thought Sam Winchester has is a happy one, because he’s never going to be alone again.  
  
________________________________________  
  
The world spins on.  
  
Camp Chitaqua, Dean thinks as he drives the car back in through the gates, is basically everybody’s bomb shelter. Shit’s going down and every day more people seem to come and huddle under it.  
  
There’s plenty of beds at least. Enough that no one’s complaining about Cas having a cabin to himself and never even sleeping in it.  
  
Dean pulls up as close to his cabin as he can, a little clear spot in the woods, and gets out to check for damage. What he sees doesn’t please him- two long scratches and a dent the size of a basketball on the rear door. Not for the first time, he wonders if he’d be better leaving the Impala where it was safe.  
  
He hears Cas tramping off through the leaves and turns his attention away from his baby. He catches up just inside the cabin and he tosses his bag off to the side, accidentally knocking over an end table. The door slams shut behind him without his help, pushed closed by a gust of wind. Cas is only a few strides away and he closes the gap easily. Wrapping his arms around his waist, he gets in one kiss to the back of the neck before the other man turns to face him.  
  
He attempts to wipe the look of surprise off of his face with a long, deep kiss, though it doesn’t work very well.  
  
“You really saved my ass out there today.” The words come in a pause for breath before Dean presses his lips to Cas’s again, one hand already pulling the edge of the t-shirt out of the other man’s jeans. He slides a warm hand around to his back, pushing forward towards the bed.  
  
“Dean-“ Try as he might, Cas isn’t given the chance to finish his sentence. It doesn’t matter anyway. Dean’s been so distant lately; the change is too good to bother worrying about. The familiar leather jacket is shrugged to the floor, thudding dully against the wood.  
  
They break apart long enough for Dean to push Cas back onto the mattress and tug his t-shirt over his head. There’s something desperate in his eyes, something hungry. The other man smiles and abandons his tattered t-shirt in mirror.  
  
The younger man climbs on top of him, kneeling over his thighs for a moment before pulling him up into another messy kiss. They shift as Dean moves onto his back, one hand in Cas’s hair, the other on his waist. “You were like-“ He leans up for a kiss, stumbling over the words. “A fucking… I don’t know.” Cas tucks his head into the crook of Dean’s neck, kissing his throat, and finally the other man finds the word he was looking for.  
  
“You were like a fucking angel.”  
  
Cas’s world seems to freeze, and then shatter.  
  
Dean isn’t interested in him at all. The sudden excitement, the sudden wanting him again…  
  
He’s interested in a ghost.  
  
Trying to overcome the stutter in his movements he shifts back up for a kiss, but he’s soft and pliant in comparison. His heart isn’t in it. Dean’s hands skim lightly across his skin and he feels nothing but heavy and clumsy and human. “Dean,” he tries again, something else creeping into his voice. He’s ignored, and one of the hands climbs to rest in between his shoulder blades- right in in between where his wings should be.  
  
Dean finally pauses to look at him, and the words die in his throat. He looks so pleased, so quietly happy to see him in a way he hasn’t been for so long. He can’t take that away.  
  
“It’s nothing. Was having a blank brain moment.”  
  
Dean’s smile is so unfamiliar and happy that Cas can only think it’s worth it to lie. He leans down and kisses him again, brushing their lips together gently. As the young man’s hand skims down his stomach to toy with the button on his jeans, Cas wonders if he’s seeing what Dean used to be. Not before this particular mess, but before all of the scars started to form on his soul. Was Dean happy, once upon a time?  
  
The thought gets dragged away as Dean slips a warm hand around him, and his body wins out, hardening in against Dean’s palm. He rocks his hips into it and feels a leg hook lazily over his own at the knee.  
  
He’s being a little selfish, he realises as he kisses the base of the other man’s neck again, but he’s too exhausted to really care. This warm, muggy haze is all he needs.  
  
When they’re done, Dean leaves to check on things, and do his usual rounds of status reports. Cas thinks he makes a joke about getting Chuck to climb off his back before he exits.  
  
Cas pulls himself out of the bed, catching his reflection in the mirror on the wall as he does so. The image makes his heart sink. There sits a man- unshaven, unkempt, and so very, very human. Calmly and quietly he puts on the clothes he abandoned on the floor.  
  
He sleeps in his own cabin for the rest of the week.  
  
________________________________________  
  
Sunrises used to be a symphony of colour, once upon a time. Pinks and organises and pale yellows that melt into the most beautiful shades of blue.  
  
These days the sunrises are red. No one knows why. A few theories get batted around, about methane and the heat of the planet. Cas likes to tell newbies that Lucifer does it because he likes the colour.  
  
It’s funny, how that’s what comes to Dean’s mind as he stares at the blood pooling under where his friend is lying. Funny how the memory chases away rational thought for a few seconds- he’s lucky that they’d killed the damn thing at the same time. Then Cas lets out a groan and the air rushes back in. “Ugh. That’s definitely more than broken.” His gaze is fixed with morbid curiosity on his own forearm, the pain still held off by the adrenaline.  
  
As he hurries over, it becomes obvious to Dean what Cas means. The fractured end of a bone is sticking out of the other man’s arm, blood oozing thickly around the source. “Shit.”  
  
“Yeah.” Cas opens his mouth further to make some kind of comment, but he shifts as he does, and the sudden wrench of pain makes his eyes roll back into his head as the comfort of unconsciousness claims him.  
  
Dean takes a breath and takes a hold of the other man’s arm carefully. Thankful he’s out cold, he pulls slowly and firmly until the bone slides back under the skin again, ignoring the squelch and the slick feeling of blood on his fingers stoically. He gropes the forest floor blindly for moss and lets himself glance off to the side to find a few solid looking sticks. It’s hardly high-quality medical care, but a splint will keep it settled until they get back to camp.  
  
The knife from his boot tears through the ends of his shirt easily, and he cuts enough strips to tie one tightly around Cas’ upper arm too, trying to cut off the circulation. Cas wakes up again during it, still feeling the pain shoot through him.  
  
He’s being pulled upright and Dean’s arm holds him up as they stumble to the jeep they’ve been using more and more often. He doesn’t remember much of the car journey back- just that someone left Bob Dylan in the stereo.  
  
________________________________________  
  
The medical cabin is not somewhere he’s ever wanted to wake up in before, but the solid white walls and the acrid scent of antiseptic are actually sort of soothing.  
  
Cas feels strange though. It’s like being numbed from the pain by his body, but better, and stronger. He doesn’t feel that attached to his flesh at all.  
  
The feeling is painfully familiar, feeling like a barely tethered balloon, and he wants to weep. Not thinking, he stands sharply, ignoring the way his arm refuses to co-operate-  
  
Jimmy’s arm.  
  
He strides across the floor, ignoring the shout from the nurse on duty. She’s just human, and he’s not again. He’s not there in this skin, he’s connected to everything, he can barely feel and what does filter through is ecstasy and blessed relief. He shoves open the door, stepping out into the open air.  
  
The fact that an angel would feel an updraft of the wind under their wings, pushing them towards the sky, and he remains entirely grounded doesn’t bother him.  
  
Just because he’s an angel again doesn’t mean his wings are fixed yet. It was Raphael after all- if the healer decided he wanted something not to heal, it would take a long time of fighting to fix it.  
  
The sunlight is bright, and Castiel feels his mood lighten with it. Such a beautiful world to behold.  
  
The edges of everything are tinged with colours and refractions again, the way they had been to him since his creation. He runs a hand through what he thinks of, in the hollow of his mind, as Jimmy’s tousled hair, and smiles despite himself.  
  
“Cas?”  
  
Even if the nickname is really not appropriate, it’s only a sign of affection, and he lets it pass by without comment. “Dean.”  
  
The young man stares at him, slightly bewildered. “You’re out of bed already? That’s pretty quick buddy.”  
  
“This wound will heal soon enough.” It’s only because he’s feeling his way back into it that it hasn’t already. Castiel turns to look at his friend- his charge- no, his friend still, taking in the sweep of the area as he does so. His eyes are drawn to where his personal cabin is, and the flood of memories of his recent behaviour comes back to him in a rush.  
  
The drinking is one thing, and the smoking almost passable, but as a human was he so addicted to vices? Nights of smoky games of cards with the currency of fresh fruit and nostalgic items settle into place first. Sitting with the prophet after everyone else had given up, still betting over toiletries of all things.  
  
And had he really spent so much of his time convincing women to have sex with him? It seemed pitiful.  
  
But human, and so those past mistakes were excused.  
  
He doesn’t realise he’s staring at empty space for several minutes until Dean puts a hand on his shoulder heavily. “Cas, I think you should go back to bed. They gave you-“  
  
Castiel gives him a sympathetic smile. Poor boy doesn’t understand. “They gave me my grace back. I can feel it. Somehow that nature spirit- or possibly the injury itself- or possibly my father- gave it back to me.” His blue eyes light up with something, but his next words hit Dean cold. “I’m not useless anymore.”  
  
Taking a deep breath, Dean puts his other hand on the small of his friend’s back, pushing gently. The other man doesn’t seem to notice he’s being guided towards the cabin he’d been so intently focused on a moment ago. “Cas, I don’t think you get it. You’re on-“  
  
The way Castiel cuts across him makes it pretty obvious that he’s not as oblivious as he wants to be. That there’s plenty of him that knows that it’s something far more terrestrial than Grace pumping through his veins. “The demons won’t be able to keep anything from us any more Dean. We can win.”  
  
There might have been a time when Dean would’ve let Cas live in his delusion. Just let him pretend he was the angel he ached to be for an hour or two in the privacy of his cabin. But he was too much a different man, and things were nothing like the same. Wandering around, thinking he was invulnerable was a sure fire way to get killed.  
  
And much as a small part of him wants to get drunk, get high, forget and live in the delusion too, he can’t. Pretending Cas is the person he used to be- the person Dean misses desperately- was all that. Pretending, like a child. “Cas, you’re on morphine. You haven’t got your wings back, and you’re pretty fucking far from an angel. Shut up and go sleep it off.”  
  
Cas feels the shove push him into his room, but against all common sense clings to his little construction, and tells himself that he let Dean do it.  
  
A very quiet, sober part of him decides he likes painkillers a lot.  
  
________________________________________  
  
It becomes an easy routine.  
  
Trade, beg, borrow, steal, get a hold of a few pills or herbs or injections and see the world like an angel sees it.  
  
It invites in the other routines. “I’ll share if you pound me into the mattress babe.” “Give you a bottle of these if you let me fuck you.”  
  
When he’s sober, he cares too much about getting out of it to be picky about who, or what they want, or why.  
  
When he’s not, it doesn’t matter anyway.  
  
________________________________________  
  
  
  
The broken foot is the first legitimate reason Cas has had to get painkillers from the supplies in what feels like an age. It’s actually only been a few months, but he doesn’t dwell on how long that feels compared to how it used to. He doesn’t dwell on anything to do with angels if he can help it.  
  
He tosses down a couple of pills, chasing them with a swig of whiskey from the one of the collection of bottles by his bedside. Sometimes, when the world is broken down to colours and shapes because of one kind of vice or another, he likes to arrange them in little groups.  
  
The sunlight streaming through the window bounces off them, fracturing rainbows on the wall between the Indian instrument one of the girls gave him- a sitar, maybe- and one of the ever changing paintings in the frame he procured from an empty house. This week it’s a painting of the Italian Alps.  
  
He may be hopeless, but as the numbness fills him, Cas feels content enough. He reaches under his bed, shoving the empty boxes and abandoned projects out of the way until he finds something book shaped. He’s still fumbling when he hears the tentative knock on the doorframe of his cabin.  
  
It’s not Dean then, he thinks before turning his head to look. A young man stands behind the curtain, a bottle of some description clutched in his hand, and he shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot.  
  
“Come in,” Cas hollers, mildly intrigued.  
  
The figure reveals himself to be as expected, a young man of maybe 19 or 20, and the bottle in his hand turns out, surprisingly, to be a bottle of port. Cas gives him a lethargic half wave. “I’d get up, but-“ he gestures to the bandaged foot propped up on the end of the bed. “What is it you want?”  
  
Pushing a handful of soft floppy hair out of his eyes, the boy stumbles over the words. “I, um… I heard something about you and…”  
  
His stance isn’t a kind well-wisher, and Cas prods him into continuing. “I’m aging here.”  
  
The sentence sits heavy in his gut, dispelling some of the good mood from the painkillers, and he tries to push past it as he listens.  
  
“I’ve never…” The bottle, held in sweaty palms like a protective talisman, catches the light and adds a rainbow to the wall. “I’ve never… been with anybody.” The blush makes its way up his neck and across his nose. Cas notices he has freckles. “And someone said you would… that you’re the camp… prostitute?”  
  
For some reason, Cas laughs and laughs and laughs until his throat is as sore as his foot should be.  
  
Later, Dean comes to visit him, and the fact he accepts the smell of sex and the arrival of gifts as normal hurts Cas more than any physical injury ever could.  
  
________________________________________  
  
Today is a day that doesn’t seem any different than any other.  
  
There are three things that prove this wrong.  
  
A man named Dean Winchester plans for a trip that could turn the world around, if he succeeds.  
  
Another man, also named Dean Winchester but different at soul level, where it counts, appears in a bed in an abandoned motel, oblivious to everything.  
  
And someone- not a man, not an angel- named Cas- just Cas, no Winchester, no Castiel- wakes from his slumber with the heavy knowledge that he is going to die.  
  
He’s kind of looking forward to it.

  
  
  



End file.
